The Day Art Died
by Mun Pai
Summary: AU. Vincent is a famous artist who is struggling to find out who he really is and what it is exactly that he wants in life. When he befriends a young girl named Yuffie, he starts to find some answers. Slight Yuffentine & shonen-ai.


(This is a fan fic that was inspired by a rainy day and a video in art class about an artist named David Hockney. He's got some very interesting stuff. XD Anyway, this is mainly about Vincent and Yuffie, although it will have characters from other Final Fantasies, mainly from Seven, of course. Also, this is about as alternate universe as a fic can possibly get. IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THE GAME! Enjoy!)

THE DAY ART DIED

Chapter One: Some Kind of Prodigy

Rain dripped from the metal gutters that lined the roofs of every building in that district. The water that collected there was cold and dirty, and always dropped on the heads of people who walked under the gutters. It was inevitable that it would pelt an unsuspecting bystander, even if they were simply near them. And so, of course, this was way a fat blob flew from the roof and collided with the top of a young man's head.

It figured.

The man sighed, wisps of smoke emitting from his mouth. He raised a thin cigarette to his pale lips and took a puff, the smoke filling his lungs. As he lowered the unhealthy item, a short cough forced itself from his throat. This "cold" that itched in the back of his mouth appeared weeks ago, and without warning. Normally, sickness quickly subsided after a few days, but not this one. The worst part was that it was just an annoying, burning cough that never stopped. After endless glasses of orange juice and dozens of Tylenol, it just refused to go away.

Maybe he needed to stop smoking.

It was not even his fault he started, really. Perhaps it was all the second-hand smoke from his friends, or maybe it was just out of stress. Who knew?

At first, like every other foolish teen, he said that he could quit whenever he wanted to. Now he was just about to turn thirty-six, and his addiction showed no sign of relenting. Although there were times when his parents and friends asked him to quit, he always shrugged them off. He told them that it was his life and that he would decide how he lived.

The date was October the twelfth, and the weather was dismal and slightly too cold for his liking. Even as he journeyed through the slums of the city, he felt his jaw chatter and his fingers ache. Nevertheless, he continued, his determination drove him to come to the slums—he did so quite often. Despite his poor appearance, he lived in a lovely apartment in a more ritzy area. It was his love for what he knew in the past that held a strange control over whatever he did.

He turned a corner and entered a different street. This area was as familiar to him as the back of his hand, as much of a cliché as it was to say that. A curious, open air market stood before him. Usually, he went to the slums every Sunday, but plans conflicted and so he came on Saturday. This was why he did not expect to see the market, although he should have known it would be there—he used to go every weekend with his older sister.

The streets were not as crowded as they normally were…probably because of the miserable weather. Most of the booths that usually sold huge varieties of items were closed. It was as if the life he once knew vanished—taken away by his success as an artist. As a boy, he discovered his profound talent when his aunt gave him a set of cheap water colors for his birthday. He made his own brushes out of an old broom and painted on empty, white paper bags.

When he entered school, he found other mediums waiting for him. It quickly became obvious to his teacher that he was some kind of prodigy. Of course, he had no idea what this all meant. By the time he turned eleven, his work was being shown in galleries all around the city. His teacher made him show up at the opening of each exhibition. She made him comb his unruly black hair and wear ugly, dark suits. Whenever he asked if his sister and his mother could come, she always threw some excuse or another at him.

After two years of that, he realized that she was exploiting him. He quit doing his art until he switched to high school, where he knew that he could finally do it again and be free. This time, his art appeared in galleries again and his family came to the exhibits with him. The best part was that he was able to earn money and help support them.

Now he was one of the city's most well known artists. His fame spread all the way back to his native country, Wutai. He barely remembered that place because his family moved to Midgar when he was only four. His mother insisted that he learn her language and all the customs. He had yet to see a practical use for it. All learning Wutaian did was give him a silly sounding accent and made it difficult to speak how people spoke in Midgar.

With nothing accomplished, he left the market and the slums altogether. His cigarette had long since run out. Grumbling, he thrust his hands into his pockets and searched for another. The search left him empty handed. With a shrug, he strode into the nearest convenience store. Like all stores of its kind, this one smelled intensely of cheap cleaning products, and all the shelves were overstuffed with unhealthy foods and three kinds of beer, behind the counter stood a squat, bald man with a lazy eye.

Twenty different kinds of cigarettes sat in the fiberglass case which was behind the ugly, little man. After a moment, the artist picked out which brand he wanted and asked the man for two packs. As the man fetched them, he spoke up, his voice low and raspy, "I have seen you before," he said to the artist, "You were on the television." His accent led the artist to believe that he came from Corel. "What is your name?" he asked as he laid the packs on the counter.

Before he turned fifteen, he changed his name because his Wutaian name was too hard for foreigners to pronounce. His last name remained the same, for his father was from Kalm, a town not far from Midgar. "My name is Vincent Valentine," he replied and paid for the cigarettes. This exact conversation happened every time he went to the store to buy things to fulfill his pathetic addiction.

Why he chose a name that started with a "v," he did not know. He simply found the name strangely appealing, although it had taken him months to stop saying it with more of a "b" sound instead of a "v" sound. It had been a kind of battle for him, to see if he could completely diminish his annoying accent. As hard as he tried, it would never fully go away.

The short man scratched his head with his thick fingers; he was trying to figure out where he heard that name before. "I see," he stated lamely, "Do you need a bag?"

A bag? Vincent shook his head and took the cigarettes from the man. He nodded in thanks and left the store. Cold wind blasted his face, blowing his long hair out behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and dug his zippo lighter out of his pocket. A tiny flame ignited when he flicked it on. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth (he opened one of the packs as he left the store) and lit it. A bus drove by, smoke billowing from its muffler. Pollution was everywhere, but it was most abundant in this city. It was ironic that he hated most means of transportation because of the pollution they created. After all, his cigarettes emitted their own miniscule amounts of noxious fumes as well.

If cars could pollute the environment, then he could too. Right as he released more smoke into the air, that irritating cough returned. Maybe his parents were right. If he actually did quit, they would not be around to say "I told you so." When Vincent was seventeen, his mother passed away. His father left his mother when he was only six years old. The only family he had left was his older sister, Garnet.

On his way home, rain began to drizzle from the dull, grey sky. Vincent foolishly left his umbrella at home. Luckily, he did not have much farther to go. While most people would call a taxi, he just kept walking. The rain really was not so terrible.

Ten minutes flew by, and he found himself at his apartment door. Immediately before he went into the building, the drizzle turned into a down pour. With one hand busily pushing back his soaked hair, he unlocked the white door and went inside. The apartment was empty…but why should he expect anyone to be there?

Two nights ago, he and his lover broke up for the fifth time. Every few months or so, it would happen and then for some reason, Vincent always accepted him once again. This time, however, things would be different. He would find someone new, even if it took months to do. He _was_ running out of time though; he would be older tomorrow.

(end of chapter 1! Yes, I know I changed Vincent's age. ; Review please! Flames will just be made fun of, considering how stupid they always are!)


End file.
